


Open Flame

by MrsJohnReese



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29683152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJohnReese/pseuds/MrsJohnReese
Summary: After Sarah's death, Chris thought he had seen the last of her best friend, but that was before she came to town on the heels of the men trailing Hank Conley. Annie had always been a bit reckless, and overly protective of a man Chris could not truly say he liked. And when she collapses in the saloon, it will soon become clear that she might be in need of protection, herself.
Relationships: Chris Larabee/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

Annabelle Latham leaned against the wood of the open door frame looking out onto the fields of corn a mere few feet away from the rear of her home, the soft breeze rustling her skirts, and blowing a stray tendril of hair across her face at precisely the same time. Though she knew there were far more important things that required her time, the young woman found it near to impossible to remove herself from her current position, her arms folding across her chest while the breeze tickled against her bare toes where they rested against the planks of the wood flooring inside her home.

Her husband would be coming in from the fields any moment now, and if she dared to not have dinner on the table when he did, the consequences would likely be severe.

Still, Annabelle remained where she was, blue eyes closing as she inhaled as slowly as she could, and let the breath out at the exact same pace. The act no longer pained her as it had a few days prior, giving her every reason to believe that the bruising around her ribs just might be on its way to being healed. And as the familiar scents of woodsmoke and horses and the flowers she kept in the ground just beside the porch washed over her, Annabelle knew she would have been a fool to pretend she was anything other than grateful for what she had.

Forcing her eyes open in response to the thought, the young woman allowed her gaze to stray across her land once again, one hand shifting to rest upon her hip while the other lifted to swipe at the tendril of hair that had moved to partially obstruct her vision. After she had succeeded in tucking it behind an ear, she somehow managed to force herself to turn away from the open doorway, in favor of heading back towards the kitchen, her hands smoothing across her skirts as she went. A frown passed over her features as she recognized the futility of the gesture, though she still remained capable of persuading her mind away from any contemplation of the particular reasons behind it…

She knew if she spent too much time on such thoughts, she would likely lose the ability to maintain any sort of perspective on the lingering benefits of her situation at all.

With such a thought in mind, Annabelle continued on her path to the kitchen, her gaze instinctively moving back towards the doorway she had left behind to ensure her husband had not somehow decided to come in early from his work. What she saw there froze her in her tracks, her heart lodging somewhere in her throat as her hands once again ran in an idle pattern down the fabric of her skirts. But almost as soon as the panic had threatened to overtake her, she found that it was almost as quickly fading, her brow furrowing for only a moment as she regarded the figure stood in the doorway as though hardly daring to believe her own eyes, before summoning whatever lingering fortitude she possessed to move towards the man, her arms almost immediately outstretched to take his hands as soon as she took in the abject horror written so plainly upon his face.

"Hank? My God, what happened? What's wrong?"

"I killed him. I did it, Annie, I killed him."

"Killed who?" Annabelle asked, glancing down at her impromptu guest's trembling hands, and noting with a start that they were covered in blood, "Hank, I need you to tell me what happened."

"I did. I told ya," The older man insisted, his eyes almost seeming to plead with her to take him at his word, despite the fact that Annabelle could hardly persuade herself to believe that she had heard him correctly to begin with, "I killed the bastard that got my little girl."

Taking an instinctive step back as the words sent what felt like a bucket of ice water through her veins, Annabelle forced herself to look at the face of the man she had brought to stand in the middle of her kitchen, her throat convulsing around an attempt at a swallow, despite the fact that her throat had already gone dry. It would have been a lie for her to pretend that she was not at least a little bit pleased at the news, whether or not she had any tangible proof that what Hank had said was true. And although she wanted very badly to question her own morality, when she had clearly come to the point where she could pass off a man's death as though it were no more complicated than facing the prospect of a shattered piece of china, Annabelle forced the thought to the side, her attention once again turning towards Hank as she ushered him over to a chair beside the table, before moving to the woodstove to see about warming enough water in hopes that she could set about the task of cleaning the blood from his hands.

"Thought ya would be happy."

"Happy?" Annabelle repeated, something not all that far from a shaky laugh escaping as she reached into the cupboard above the stove for a fresh towel, her hands shaking so fervently that she nearly dropped the fabric in the process, "You could hang for this!"

"Not gonna stick 'round long enough for that."

"And where do you think you'll go?"

"Somewhere they'd never find me," Hank supplied, his tone seeming to indicate this was the simplest thing in the world, in spite of the fact that it was anything but, "I'd take ya with me, Annie. Ya know I would."

"I can't go with you. You know that," Annabelle countered, carrying the towel over to the kitchen table, along with the bowl of water she had warmed, placing both upon the wooden surface, before reaching for the older man's hands to guide him in the act of washing up, "Matthew would be after us both in minutes, flat."

"Might be I could keep ya safe. Get ya 'way from him for good."

"You don't need to be worried about that right now. Better that you worry about yourself."

"I do worry 'bout ya, Annie. It ain't right, what you're livin' with," Hank persisted, allowing the young woman to dip his hands into the water, her fingertips gently easing the stains from his skin while his eyes remained fixed upon her face, "My girl would've thought ya deserved better, too."

"Well I daresay there isn't a thing any one of us can do about it now," Annabelle said, her lips thinning into a line as she watched the blood sluice away from Hank's weathered hands, and a knot formed in her stomach in response. Of course she knew that he was not wrong. That her dear friend would have hated the situation she was in almost as much, if not more than she did, herself. But as thoughts of what had become of Sarah Conley threatened to overwhelm her, Annabelle forced her attention back to the present once again, her jaw clenching for only a moment as she satisfied herself that Hank's hands were as clean as she could make them, and gently assisted the old man in lifting them from the bowl so that she could begin to dry them with the towel nearby, instead.

"Miss her, don't ya?" Hank asked, though the tone he used made the words more of a statement than a question, just as much as it forced Annabelle to level a warning look his way before she replied with a single word that still somehow managed to carry more weight than an entire litany would have on its own.

"Always."

Before either one of them could say anything more on the topic, however, the sound of the door leading to the cornfields at the back of the modest home slamming shut rather garnered the attention of the two seated at the kitchen table, the old man's expression turning almost defiant, while Annabelle's features had all but drained of any color. For a moment, she remained frozen in place, her fingers still gripping the towel she had been using to dry Hank's hands as she watched her husband move into the kitchen, himself, rage glinting in his eyes. And although she had been prepared to stand and meet the newcomer half-way in hopes that she could persuade him to stand down for long enough that she could usher Hank away from their home without a dispute, Annabelle found the effort thwarted as she watched her husband draw a gun from its place holstered at his belt, her heart seeming to stop within her chest as she waited for only a moment, before reacting on instinct to the threat that laced his words.

"Thought I told ya I didn't want this old fool comin' 'round here no more, Annie."

Although she had known the consequences for her defiance would have been severe, Annabelle still did not expect the sharp pain that arose in her side at the same time as a shot pierced the air, her body angling itself between her husband and Hank as she glanced over her shoulder and managed a single plea before pain stole her breath away entirely.

"Hank, go…"

…


	2. Chapter 2

Annabelle woke with a wince in the darkness of what she presumed was her kitchen, the floorboards cold beneath her frame as she turned onto her side and did her best to stifle a hoarse cough. Whatever hope she had that her bruised ribs had healed was long gone as each attempt to draw breath sent a spasm of renewed pain racketing through her torso. Instinctively, she shifted an arm to wrap around her waist, her eyes squeezing closed as she forced herself to take shallow breaths to keep the pain at bay. And it was then that she felt it, seeping through the fabric of her dress, and sticking to the bared portion of her forearm beneath the hem of her sleeve that she had rolled up before attempting to aid Hank Conley with the task of cleaning his hands…

Blood.

Gritting her teeth, Annabelle placed her free hand flat upon the floorboards to lever herself into a seated position, her lips clamping down around a low moan as the act caused lightning to race up and down her side. Her other hand moved back to graze as gently as she could manage against the damp spot on her dress, nearly atop her hip bone, the stickiness of the fabric bringing bile to the back of her throat. But before she could summon the wherewithal to force herself to stand, Annabelle knew she had to at least attempt to discern where her husband was, first.

If he was near, and heard her shifting around, he would be on her again before she could even dream of getting away.

With such a thought in mind, Annabelle allowed her eyes a moment or two to adjust to the lack of light, her gaze sliding around the room as slowly as though she actually believed Matthew might be able to hear if she moved any faster. Just when she had given up hope of seeing anything at all, the faintest shadows of a liquor bottle toppled onto its side met her eyes as she gazed in the direction of what could only have been the half-open door of the bedroom. And as she remained still, hardly daring even to breathe, Annabelle soon heard the familiar sounds of her husband's snores, her eyes closing for only a moment in relief before she set about attempting to stand in earnest.

The act was excruciating, forcing her teeth to clamp down onto her lower lip as she dragged herself upright with a hand on what she now knew was the edge of the wooden table, her fingernails digging into the surface so fiercely she almost feared that tiny half-crescent indentations would be left in their wake. In truth, the fire lancing through her side, and curling around her midsection like a vice required all the strength she possessed to resist crying out, her jaw clenched so tightly she almost feared it would snap. As soon as the stars had left her vision, Annabelle allowed herself the luxury of attempting to push away from the tabletop, the metallic tang of blood on her lips provoking a gasp as she realized she had bitten them enough to break the soft flesh. But even as the hand that had been at her side lifted to press against her mouth to mask the sound, Annabelle forced herself to move away from the table, her steps leading her on blind instinct towards the far end of the room where she knew she would find the chest holding a spare pair of work clothes her husband kept on hand for work in the fields, every fiber of her being praying that she could manage to bandage her wound enough to slip on the pants and shirt she knew would be at least three sizes too large before she headed out to the stables.

She had to find Hank. If his actions really had provoked revenge, and she had no doubt that they would, he could not run for long on his own.

Encouraged by the thought, Annabelle crossed to the chest near the door, her fingers cautiously tugging at the handle, and managing to somehow gain access to the contents inside without a sound. Knowing she might not have much time to patch herself up before her husband woke, the young woman did as best she could to strip out of her dress, tearing off as much of the fabric as she could from the skirt to wind about her torso before slipping into her husband's spare shirt and trousers, her skin pale from the effort, and a sheen of sweat forming upon her brow as she fought against the renewed pull of unconsciousness in favor of grabbing his jacket hanging on a peg near the back door, and moved outside. Drawing the jacket close around her frame, Annabelle gritted her teeth once more, each movement sending stabs of pain through her that threatened to bring her to her knees. But whether by sheer force of will, or something altogether different, she somehow managed to make it to the stables and saddle the horse even in spite of the trembling that had taken over, her hands clinging to the reins like a lifeline as she pushed the horse into a gallop and sped off while the pain that dogged her seemed to fade away bit by bit…

She had not a clue where Hank may have gone, in truth, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

She owed it to Sarah to do what she could to keep him safe.

…

The cloud of dust was the first thing that caught Annabelle's eye as she pulled her horse to a stop on top of the ridge, her eyes squinting as she leaned forward in the saddle to get a better look in spite of the small stab of pain the wound at her side gave off in protest. Though she knew that the dimming discomfort was likely not, in reality, a very good thing, particularly when coupled with the occasional numbness that would spread from her toes, to her legs as well, Annabelle ignored its implications in the wake of simply clinging to her driving need to find Hank before any vengeful family, or law man found him first. And as she continued to track the dust cloud with careful blue eyes, Annabelle also made note of the fact that, if she did not find Hank soon, she would also be faced with the threat of her enraged husband at her back, as well.

Shaking the thought from her mind as soon as it threatened to turn her determination to sheer panic, instead, Annabelle steered her horse down the sparse path that would allow her to follow after the source of the dust cloud that had so ensnared her attention, her lips thinning into a line as she gathered that in the middle of that cloud, resided a dark coach, surrounded by riders in black. From the looks of it, they were headed in the direction of the nearby town, and she endeavored to follow after them, despite hardly knowing if that was where Hank would have gone, himself. If nothing else, she could at least stop for long enough to ask if anyone had seen him, passing through, and perhaps she could even afford a few moments respite for a meal, and a bath as well.

And if she did not find the man she sought? She would simply keep pressing on.

With a soft pat against the horse's neck by way of encouragement, Annabelle nudged the animal forward with the gentle pressure of her thighs, her grip tightening on the reins as they sped forward as fast as she dared. She knew well enough that it would be foolhardy to call attention to her presence, though the expanse of flat earth between where she, and the party she trailed were in relationship to the faint hints of the buildings at the edge of the town that was their destination would likely make that task difficult, before very long.

If they did become aware of her presence, Annabelle supposed she would have to hold to the hope that she would be able to concoct a reasonable explanation for her journey alone on the road, and in men's clothing to boot, and that they would simply take her at her word and move on.

Shaking her head as the seeming foolhardiness of her plan took hold, the young woman tried as best she could to force aside any lingering misgivings, in favor of simply endeavoring to focus on the present moment, instead. She would do herself no good getting distracted by the inherent 'what ifs' of her current situation, no matter how fiercely those 'what ifs' clamored around inside her mind demanding attention. And so, she closed the door on those thoughts as firmly as she could, while simultaneously fighting against the sudden lightheadedness that assailed her, causing her to grit her teeth in the reckless hope that it would keep her from falling off her horse.

If she faltered, now, Hank Conley was as good as dead.

"Keep it together, Annie," She hissed at herself, the words coming through gritted teeth as she kept her eyes on the party moving at a fast clip ahead of her, her horse's movements faltering only a bit as the animal seemed to sense her anxiety and respond in kind, "You've faced far worse than this."

She had faced her husband on her wedding night, enduring his ignorance of how best to calm a woman who was innocent to men in all respects. She had faced him the night her grief over Sarah had immobilized her, and she had forgotten to have a meal prepared when he returned from the fields. She would have been a fool not to consider the fallout from that particular indiscretion as the worst she had ever faced, at least until what came after.

Annabelle Latham had lost a child that night, as a consequence of the beating her husband had given her, and yet somehow, that loss had been her fault, too.

Compared to that, the dull pain that still lingered at the back of her mind in response to everything Matthew had done to her in the wake of Hank's departure seemed like nothing.

Once again steeled by the direction her thoughts had taken, Annabelle continued to follow after the grouping that she had spied from a distance, a silent prayer going heavenward that she would not be proven wrong in her suspicion that following them could lead her to the man she was after, as well. Hank Conley was many things, she knew, but predictable had never really been one of them.

And as such, she allowed herself to be pushed onward by the fervent hope that, just this once, perhaps he would defy her expectations, and be exactly that.

…

"Lookin' for an old man, might of been headin' this way. I'll pay a good reward for anyone that gives us a lead on where he might've gone."

Keeping her head down and feigning an almost obsessive interest in the bit of bread and stew she had purchased for a meal, Annabelle found herself taken aback by the vehemence in the older woman's tone. Of course, she was no stranger to the idea of the white-hot fury that imbued many that were seeking vengeance for a presumed crime, having heard the same in her husband's tone, and that of his brothers, far more times than she could count. But to hear that same thirst for blood in a woman's voice?

That chilled her far more than any hint of fury her husband may direct her way, and that realization was quite a bit more disconcerting than Annabelle would have liked to admit.

"Saw a feller matchin' your description just this mornin'," A voice spoke up, the eagerness he felt for the aforementioned financial gain if his words proved useful causing Annabelle to risk lifting her gaze for just long enough to glance his way, "Came in lookin' for a meal, and a change of clothes."

"He say where he was headed?" The woman demanded, her black skirts rustling as she turned to face her would-be informant, her expression stern as she fiddled with the rosary clutched between her hands.

"Nothin' too specific, ma'am. Just kept ramblin' about some man who killed his daughter, and Chris Larabee."

Biting down on her lip in an effort to stifle the gasp that wanted to break free in response to her shock at the familiar name, Annabelle forced her eyes back towards her meager supper before anyone could take notice of her expression of outright surprise. Truthfully, she could not fathom why Hank would seek out his son-in-law. Not when he hadn't spoken a word to the man since he married Sarah. But before she could become too distracted by her surprise, Annabelle tightened her hold on the bit of bread in her hand, her fingers taking up the act of tearing it into pieces while she forced her attention back to the conversation at hand.

"Larabee. Ain't he one of those gunslingers over in Four Corners?"

"The hell is he lookin' to find him for?"

"Protection, most like," One of the men in black supplied, moving to stand beside the older woman, and regarding his younger companion with an unreadable look before going on, "We'll be needin' to get after him before he gets it, Ma."

"I know that," The woman snapped, waving away her son's concern with a simple flick of her wrist, before resettling her attention on the first man that had spoken with a look that would likely have had even the boldest man trembling in his boots, "This place you speak of. Four Corners. Is it far?"

"Just 'nother day's ride, most like, less ya run into trouble with your horses."

"Good. My boys will see to it that you are paid for your usefulness."

"I'm grateful, ma'am," The bedraggled man assured, sharing a toothy smile with his companions at the bar, and watching as one of the men in black stepped forward to hand over the promised reward. As she had turned to walk away, towards the remainder of what Annabelle had begun to surmise was the rest of her brood, their expressions grim as they watched the goings on first-hand, their eyes had met for just a fraction of a second. And although the younger woman had somehow managed to force herself to meet that gaze, when everything in her screamed that she would be better served by looking away, Annabelle remained firm, her lips thinning until the older woman simply gave her a curt nod, before turning away and rejoining the men grouped together at the opposite end of the room.

Whether or not she had taken her appearance as suspicious, Annabelle was grateful for the fact that the woman had elected to move on, her eyes once again dropping back to her half-eaten meal as whatever appetite she had found upon her arrival faded into nothing. Whatever Hank Conley sought from his son-in-law, she knew he would not have an easy time getting it. And although she, herself, was more than a little apprehensive at the thought of seeing a man that had likely forgotten all about her, Annabelle knew that her best shot at finding Hank before anything befell him was to force down her fear, and head to Four Corners, herself.

If she hoped to reach the town ahead of the apparent family seeking revenge, she would be wise to forgo sleep tonight in favor of continuing her journey in the dark.

…

By some miracle, Annabelle managed her journey under cover of darkness with nothing to slow her down, her horse tied up outside the saloon after she had asked the first person she could find if they had seen a man matching Hank's description. The man had responded readily enough, though she had not missed the way he eyed her garb, and the way she seemed incapable of preventing the slight sway to her stance as she furrowed her brow on occasion to fight against acknowledgement of the ringing in her ears. Urged on by the sickening sensation that whatever resolve that had allowed her to continue on as she was would soon depart, Annabelle wasted no time in slipping inside the saloon the man had nodded towards as soon as her inquiry had left her mouth. And now, standing a few feet away from the man she had been following, her fingers curled so tightly around the chair at her side that her knuckles had gone white while his back remained to her, Annabelle felt her ability to hold out against the trembling of her frame rather rapidly fading away, her face screwing up as she zeroed in on Hank Conley once again, her ears straining to hear whatever it was he was saying above the ringing that was now a nearly constant companion whether she wanted it to be or not.

"They're followin' me 'cause I killed one of their own, Chris Larabee. An' they'll kill me too, if ya let 'em."

"Reckon maybe I should."

Not surprised by the anger held behind the words, Annabelle still found herself capable of summoning the smallest hints of admiration in the wake of how Hank did not even flinch beneath the weight of what she knew to be an unflappable, and almost cold gaze. From her friendship with Sarah, she had learned early on that it took a special sort of courage to face down a man like Chris Larabee, when the reality of a quelling glare would be the least of that person's concern, should a gunfight come into play. And although the ringing in her ears had grown louder, Annabelle forced herself to push away from the relative stability provided by the chair she had been leaning against, her feet catching against the wooden floorboards in a way that caused her to stumble, despite the fact that she forced all the strength she had into her words as she came to stand at Hank Conley's side.

"You can't."

"Annie?"

"You have to help him," The young woman persisted, stowing away her curiosity over the faintest flicker of something not all that far from surprise that moved across Chris' features, before his expression returned to the unmoving mask of before, "Please."

"I don't owe him anything."

"Except for the fact that you do. He-Chris, he-"

"How did you even find me here?"

Stymied by the question, though somehow she knew it was a relatively simple one, Annabelle remained silent, her eyes holding Chris' while she fought against alarm at how nearly everything else in the room seemed to be fading to black. She had known, on some level, that as soon as she set out from her home to follow the man standing at her side, she was on borrowed time. That, eventually, whatever the scope of her injuries were, she would no longer be able to hold them at bay. And although she hated the thought of giving in, now, Annabelle found that she was soon powerless to do anything but, a sharp intake of breath breaking through her muddied thoughts as she felt herself stepping forward to plant herself between Chris and the older man at her back, only to discover that, in the process, she had tripped over one of her too-long pant legs, and was now falling forward without a thing in her path to stop it.

The last thing she felt was a pair of calloused hands catching at her arms, a hoarse shout echoing past the ringing in her ears before everything turned black, and she knew no more…

…


	3. Chapter 3

Nathan Jackson was no stranger to injury. After growing up on a plantation, and serving in the Union Army, how could he be? But it was a vastly different thing, stitching up a man who had taken a gunshot. Setting an arm that had been broken, or binding the torso to aid in the healing of a broken rib. Doing the same for a woman?

As a man who thought he had seen many of the horrors the world had to offer first-hand, even Nathan had to admit he was thoroughly unprepared for the impact that such damages might have.

It was not that the idea of injury on a woman was unthinkable. Not when he had no illusions about the nature of what went on behind closed doors in a marriage. But the bruises he saw on this woman spoke of a different sort of thing, entirely. Always below the neckline of a dress. Layered on top of old, faded yellow marks, suggestive of a repetitious battery that was enough to make his jaw clench so hard he could practically hear the pops and snaps it made in protest. And that was nothing, in comparison to the gunshot, now freed of the bullet, and cleaned as best as Nathan could manage given the circumstances…

All that remained now, was to wait, and pray that fever would not set in.

Then, of course, there was the matter of determining exactly what he ought to tell the others, gathered in the saloon, waiting for news.

It had been Chris that brought her to him, the often grim lines of his expression far more prominent than they were ordinarily as he deposited her on the small cot as Nathan had instructed, while he set about the task of rinsing his hands in some of the water he kept at the ready in a basin near the wood stove. The man had always been one of few words. A man who could stop another in his tracks with just a look. But somehow, the way Chris had seemed almost reluctant to leave the young woman's side, even with the gentle suggestion Nathan had made regarding attempting to preserve her modesty as much as was possible, given the nature of her injury, was entirely different from the cold indifference he seemed to demonstrate more often than not.

Chris knew the woman. That much was obvious. And that was what had Nathan far more than a little reluctant to venture to the saloon himself, to disclose the full extent of what this woman had been through.

He had seen the lengths some men would go to, for a woman, the most recent example of which having come particularly close to home as it pertained to Buck Wilmington. And although Chris Larabee was nowhere near as likely to accept a man's challenge to a duel, he was still more than capable of taking matters into his own hands. Going to whatever dark place he kept to himself, and leaving the rest of their group in the dark.

Nathan had absolutely no doubt that a full tally of this woman's injuries, as well as the ones from the past, would be precisely what it took to tip his friend over that edge into the chasm beneath.

Still, he knew he could not withhold that information forever. That Chris, or one of the others would be likely to make the journey to him, if he did not find them first. And so, after ensuring that his patient would remain stable for the few moments it would take to head to the saloon, himself, Nathan secured the door behind him and descended the stairs to the dusty street below, his expression nothing short of resigned as he allowed his feet to carry him towards the familiar swinging doors, and the men he knew he would find therein.

Better to get everything out in the open, he supposed, as the prospect of compromising the trust he had earned, and given back in equal measure with each of the men in question was not exactly something he could bear.

…..

"How is she?"

"Resting, for now," Nathan replied, a glance around the table his companions had gathered at showing him almost immediately that one of their party was missing, "Where's Josiah?"

"Took our new friend to the church. Thought that'd be safer than keepin' him out here, in plain sight."

"Probably a good idea."

"He didn't think so," Vin remarked, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile, even in spite of the fact that he was very well aware that his comment had only caused Chris' jaw to tighten in response, "Reckon he woulda stayed outside your door all night waitin' on news regardin' the girl, if we'd let him."

"Annie."

"What?"

"Her name is Annie."

"Are we to assume by this declaration that you know the fair damsel?" Ezra inquired, glancing up from the deck of cards he shuffled idly from hand to hand, only to find that the question was met by nothing more than a stern glance from the man he had directed the words toward in the first place, "I'll take that silence as an affirmative, shall I?"

"She's in pretty rough shape," Nathan interjected then, aware of the reality of six pairs of eyes now effectively rooted to his own position, standing at the head of the table, between Vin, and the empty chair he suspected had been kept for either him, or Josiah, depending on who arrived first, "A bullet wound isn't the only thing she's fightin' right now."

"What do you mean?"

"She's got bruises up and down her torso. I'm thinkin' probably broken ribs, and this ain't the first time she's gotten 'em, either."

"She gonna make it, Nathan?"

Glancing towards the youngest member of their little group in response to the question, Nathan did not miss the obvious concern in JD's expression, and as he thought over how best to reply, he also made a conscious effort to temper the uncertainty he knew he could not conceal with the surety that would tell the other men he would do everything he could to see to the woman's safety, himself.

"As long as the fever doesn't set in from her wound, yeah, I'd say she's got a shot."

It was hard to miss the relief that seemed to pass around the table of gathered men in the wake of his response, though it seemed to pass over the man directly opposite where Nathan stood, altogether. Almost as soon as he had spoken, Nathan found himself watching as Chris pushed his chair back and stood to his full height, his mouth set in a thin line as he moved around the table until he stood at the healer's side. Just a glance at the man's features would have been enough to have a lesser man backing away, but Nathan Jackson was not that man. Regardless of how much he respected Chris Larabee as a leader, and maybe even a friend, his duty remained with his patient. With the woman who needed rest, now, more than anything.

"I'm goin' back to keep an eye on her now, Chris. I've got this."

"No. You don't," The man in black replied, shouldering past Nathan as though he was not even there, and disappearing through the saloon doors before anyone thought to say a word in protest. Not that any of them would have, Nathan mused, a hand running across his face in both resignation, and exasperation over his inability to deter Chris from his chosen path, once he determined it was what he wanted to do. It was not that he doubted the man's ability to watch over his patient. Annie. Not that he disbelieved the honest intentions behind the gesture, whether they were mentioned out loud, or kept in silence. More aptly, it was that he had recognized the steel behind the practiced impassivity in Chris' expression, and knew that seeing the young woman as she was, asleep, and so very small beneath the thin sheet covering the cot...

That would only open up old wounds, and Nathan knew better than most exactly what that might mean for a man like Chris Larabee, whether he ever intended to inform the man of such an insight or not.

"He gonna be alright?" Vin questioned, breaking the uneasy silence that had risen up between them, and glancing towards Nathan for an answer, only to find the healer was spared the trouble by Buck taking the liberty of responding instead.

"If she lives."

Not one of them said anything out loud in response, though it would have been a lie to pretend that each of them were not almost immediately sobered by the reality of what might stand to happen if the young woman did not, in fact, survive.

It was an unspoken agreement between them that whoever was responsible would most likely pay with their life.

…

Sitting in the darkened room, watching the shallow rise and fall of Annie's chest beneath the thin coverlet, Chris Larabee reflected that in spite of previous assumptions, perhaps he really did not know her at all. From what he remembered, Annabelle Latham had been a force to be reckoned with, in her own right, and the mischievous force behind the first time he had ever met his wife, in the flesh. He recalled coy smiles, free laughter, witty remarks that had always been capable of causing Sarah to flush, the grin that pulled at her lips as she smacked her friend in the arm still lingering in his memory, even without having seen that smile in years. Somehow, she had even managed to win Hank Conley to her side, when Chris could never have said he was capable of doing the same. But now?

Now the woman seemed just a shell of who she once was, and perhaps the only thing that could have overwhelmed the anger he felt at her situation was the guilt that he had never once seen it coming.

He had never made much of an effort to know her husband, at least not beyond the cursory pleasantries that were required when encountering one another in passing, day to day. A small part of him had even found it odd that Annabelle's frequent visits had all but stopped after her marriage, though when he mentioned something about it to Sarah, she had assured him their friend was likely only caught up in the myriad of new responsibilities married life had to offer. Because the assurance had come from his wife, Chris had never spent another second considering that her words could have been anything other than the truth. And now, in the face of what Nathan had told them at the saloon, the man in black felt he should have known there was something more, beneath the surface. That Sarah's best friend, a woman close enough to have been her very own sister, would never have stayed away unless someone else had forced her hand.

That someone, it seemed, had been Matthew all along.

It was easy enough to nurse the rage such a realization brought with it, particularly when it only added fuel to the fire kindled by Hank Conley's arrival. It was even easy to maintain the barrier between that rage, and the rest of the men working with him, so they would not see the true depth of feeling recent events had provoked. But what was not so simple was watching the wince that passed over Annie's pale features as she shifted a bit on the small cot Nathan provided to aid patients in their recuperation, the slight whimper that passed between her lips causing Chris' jaw to tighten, his entire frame tensing as he watched her eyelids fluttering open to glance about the unfamiliar room until landing upon him, instead.

"Chris?"

"Annie."

"How-what-what happened?" Annabelle stammered, her hands flattening on the surface beneath her in an effort to sit upright, only to fall short as even the slightest of movements had her breath catching in her throat while her lips thinned around another cry of pain. In next to no time at all, she realized, Chris had unfolded his lean frame from the chair he had occupied beside her while she slept, and crossed over towards her, a hand pressing back against her shoulder to persuade her to stay put. And although she did not truly wish to, Annabelle forced herself to look him in the eye, then, her breath leaving her lungs in a shaky rush as she recognized almost immediately that whatever secrets she had hoped to keep while endeavoring to aid Hank Conley were now out in the open for any who looked to see, plain as day.

"You know."

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long?" Chris repeated, the words soft enough that Annabelle had to strain to hear them, despite knowing full-well that they were only that quiet because of the effort exerted to keep any and all emotion in check. For as long as she had known him, Chris Larabee had been a man of few words. A man who could convey more feeling in a single glance than he might ever do in open conversation. And what she saw now as she watched him, wary, like a small mouse may eye a cat when caught in its trap, was that even the smallest attempts at deterring him from obtaining the truth of what had brought her here would not do either of them any good at all.

"Since a month after the wedding."

"Jesus, Annie, why the hell didn't you tell anyone?"

"It was nothing anyone else could change. I had it sorted."

"Sure doesn't look like it."

"That is not for you to judge," Annabelle retorted, aware of the minute twitch of a muscle against Chris' jaw, and yet choosing to press on in her apparent defiance, regardless of how foolish the decision might have been, "It was my marriage."

"You didn't have to go through this alone."

"Oh? And what would you have done, if you'd known? Come riding in on a white horse to save me? Matthew would have shot you on sight."

In response to the remark, Annie did her best to hold in a flinch as Chris recoiled back from her as though he had just been burned, his back turned while a hand drove through his hair in clear evidence of what could only be described as frustration. She hated being the cause of it. Being the reason behind the tension that was so apparent in the set of the man's shoulders, and the rigidity of his spine. She knew very well that Chris has already been through more than enough pain and suffering for a lifetime, and yet here she was, only giving him more of the same.

There were far more important things to consider than those that could not be changed.

"Chris, this doesn't-none of it matters. Not now," Annabelle began, holding firm, even in the wake of the sharp gaze that turned her way almost as soon as the words left her mouth, "It doesn't. We need to help Hank."

"Give me one good reason why."

"Because he's your family. He's my family."

"He know about what Matthew's been doin' to you?"

Pressing her lips together in the hope that it would aid her in keeping her silence, Annabelle glanced at the thin blanket covering her, her fingers fisting in the fabric as she tried to ignore how her companion's anger had become an almost palpable thing. She was no stranger to the emotion, of course, having been on the receiving end of it with Matthew more times than she could count. But somehow, feeling the brunt of that anger coming from Chris was an entirely different thing, and Annabelle would have been a liar to pretend she was at all prepared for the feeling that nearly overwhelmed her as she came to terms with the fact that she deserved it all.

It was a feeling that she only knew by one name.

Regret.

Still, she was absolutely determined to avoid giving Chris one more reason to see Hank Conley in a bad light, the grim set to his jaw prompting her to attempt sitting upright once again, the pain that tore through her middle evoking a strangled groan before she could summon the wherewithal to stop it.

"He wanted-he wanted me to let him get me away from it all. I wouldn't go. This is not his fault, Chris."

Whether Chris believed her or not, Annabelle honestly could not tell, his expression turning wary as she scooted back against the wall behind her, her fingers still gripping the blanket covering her legs so fiercely that her knuckles had turned white in response. Before she could fully reconcile it, the man was at her side, a hand resting on her shoulder to keep her steady while the other shifted the pillow to offer more support for her back. But perhaps what surprised her more than the steady warmth of his presence, and the faint comfort provided by the familiar smell of smoke and leather that registered in her mind as soon as he drew near was the sudden sensation of Chris' hand brushing against her own, where it remained fisted in the fabric of the blanket after he had settled her back against the pillow, her eyes meeting his, albeit with some hesitation, while she did her best to ignore how the sensation caused her cheeks to warm, whether she wanted them to, or not.

"Does-does this mean you'll agree to help him?" Annabelle pressed, aware that she was, perhaps, tempting fate, and yet finding she was not at all capable of stopping herself, regardless, "Please, Chris, you know I wouldn't ask you if there was any other way."

As she might have anticipated, silence was all that met her assertion at the start, and Annabelle found herself fighting against disappointment as she struggled to reconcile herself to the reality of facing the people that were after Hank Conley on her own. That she would do so without hesitation was never a question, though she would have preferred to have known she would have Chris, and perhaps even the men she had seen with him in the saloon at her side when she did. But she would have been a fool to pretend that Chris' refusal to protect a man who he had never seen eye to eye with was a surprise, no matter how fiercely she may have hoped he could have set the past aside, just this once.

Or at least, she thought she would have been a fool, until she found herself all but pinned beneath the sudden intensity in Chris' gaze as he relinquished his hold on her hand in favor of standing to his full height once more, his expression unreadable as one hand curled into a fist at his side before he spoke.

"I'll help him. But you're gonna promise me one thing in return."

"Anything."

"You ain't goin' back to Matthew Latham. Not while I'm still breathin'."

No matter how terrified Annabelle may have been at the idea of what could happen if she did not return to her proper place, she knew better than to argue, her head ducking in what ought to have passed as a nod, whether she truly wanted to acquiesce or not.

…


End file.
